Bleeding Soul

Spears pierce my mind, and my soul bleeds.

We are told we can do anything if we set our minds to it. Believe in yourself and you can accomplish the impossible.

But the walls of my prison are rock-solid. They cannot be broken no matter how much I pound and push - and they are closing in.

Some people are born with strength. They press on through life, fall, but get up again and keep going. I have no such power. My arms shrivel, my heart grows weak.

Confidence is dangerous for me. A little more, and I hurt myself.

My heart calls – my mind does not respond. My brain beckons – my body does not heed. I face the future with determination – but can barely take one step.

Daggers pierce my mind, my soul bleeds.

We are taught to stand up for what we believe. Our beliefs are a part of us. But I am knocked down before I can even rise, again and again. And every time a bloated ego marches triumphant from the site of my defeat.

Perhaps it was only defense. Perhaps they were aware of my own fangs, and that was why they sawed them off. I can't blame them. Perhaps this was for the best.

But knowing this doesn't ease the pain, and the scars throb until they numb.

I never wanted to see them writhe. I never wanted to drive them into the dirt. I just wanted them to see.

Perhaps I was confused. But my feelings were real. It's the tragedy of any argument that one must always walk away the loser – though both sides may be right about some things while wrong about others.

But the greatest tragedy of all is that some hearts may never be reconciled. They reach for one another, but a black void lies between – a rift in reality, a crack in the continuum, forever open, never to be sewed back together.

I want to believe it can be bridged. I want to believe that if I can let my talents sing, swelling in a great symphony at the top of the world for all the universe to hear, that one day you would feel the joy I felt, humming along with the tune that so moved me. And maybe I could understand you better.

But it may be my fate only to find myself one day languishing on my face, with the time and the strength only to etch the words “I wish” in the dirt before I succumb to my final sleep. Such is the way the cards could fall.

Thorns pierce my mind, my soul bleeds.

I cry out to God. He doesn't listen. “Why have you forsaken me?”

Was it because my sins were too bad? Perhaps I just can't be forgiven, perhaps I have crucified Christ one too many times.

Do I have to believe that just yet? Perhaps "it is no longer I who do it, but sin dwelling in me."

“Your God will not answer, because he does not exist,” you say. But I will not comply with your pessimism, your sick excuse for hedonism and self-worship. I know where my hope lies, and as long as I live I'll trust in that hope.

I don't know what's to be my end. Perhaps my dreams are too incompatible with the ways of Jesus. Perhaps my views are too idealistic to stand up to the scrutiny of true Biblical faith.

But I will keep waiting, praying, listening, looking – and maybe some day my dead soul will rediscover life, and the spears, daggers and thorns will stop.

And I will fly once again.